


Close Call

by Alley_Skywalker



Category: Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Angst, Banter, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Prompt Fill, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 00:37:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20144650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/pseuds/Alley_Skywalker
Summary: Once the dust clears, Dolokhov regrets pulling Anatole into a risky bet he was unlikely to handle well. (Not as dark as it might seem.)





	Close Call

The first thing Anatole says when he opens his eyes is, “Am I dead?” 

Dolokhov, who is sitting beside him, gives him an exasperated look. “No, you’re not dead. Clearly.” Morning sun is seeping through a crack in the closed curtains. 

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Concerned.”

“Well, if you were dead, I wouldn’t have anything left to be concerned about. Lie still.” 

“I don’t remember getting home. How did we get home? Ow.”

“Lie still, I said. You ask too many questions.” Dolokhov picks up a cup from the bedside table and holds it out to Anatole. “Drink this.”

Anatole drinks and makes a face. “Are you trying to poison me?”

“Now this.” Dolokhov hands him another cup. Anatole hesitates. “It’s just water. Dink it all.”

Something about the seriousness in Dolokhov’s face makes Anatole obey without question. Dolokhov takes both the empty cups from him and checks a pocket watch. He’s not meeting Anatole’s eyes. “Fedya, what is it?”

“Do you remember what happened yesterday?”

“Mostly… Up to a point. Bloody awful hangover.” 

Dolokhov stands and paces to the window. He looks out through the crack in the curtains but doesn’t draw them back, to Anatole’s relief. Even the small amount of morning light seeping into the room is making it hard for him to think. “I’m sorry I pulled you into that whole thing.” Dolokhov’s voice is strained. It’s hard for him to apologize, even when he knows it’s deserved, even when it’s Anatole, who would never use it against him. “I know your alcohol tolerance isn’t like mine, and you had already been drinking. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved.”

Anatole tries to remember what it is that Dolokhov is on about. He can remember the party, then the afterparty. Vague, he recalls the men Dolokhov had gotten in something of a tipsy tussle with, although he can no longer recall the subject of the dispute. Even more vaguely, in flashes, he remembers that there was a bet. Something about the two of them, versus the other men, but he can’t remember the specifics. The rest comes in odd flashes and glimpses through a drunken haze. At some point, they had ended up outside. He might have been sick. The rest is black and completely unreachable. 

Dolokhov rubs a hand over his forehead and Anatole realizes that he’s hungover as well, though not nearly as badly. But still nothing is explained – primarily, why Dolokhov feels the need to apologize for a drinking bet. Or any other bet. It’s what they do. They go out, have fun, drink, play pranks, sometimes get in trouble… “Fedya? I don’t understand. Did something happen?”

Dolokhov can’t quite bring himself to turn around. Anatole might not remember, but Dolokhov does. It’s not so much the bet that was the problem. He’s used to going on wild rampages and taking impossible risks. He has to for his life to be worth anything. But he didn’t need to make Anatole a part of it, especially when he knew Anatole would not have the same tolerance. It could have ended far worse that a visit from a doctor and a bad hangover. 

He can still remember how it felt, though. The pain and the rage of those _dandies, _flippant and insolent rich boys with fathers in high places and their pockets full of coin. The world catered to their preferences so much that they had truly come to believe that they were the bravest and the strongest and the most daring. He thinks that, perhaps, if he had met Anatole when they were both already adults, he would have thought the same of him. After all, there is a practical part of Dolokhov that knows that Anatole’s friendship is _useful_ to him. There’s a dark part of him that revels in getting Anatole to do one thing or another without even realizing that it wasn’t his idea to begin with. He never does any of it with an intention to _harm _Anatole. But he knows it is a breach of trust in a way all the same. 

There’s a nagging, guilty part of him deep inside that wonders if he had known that that particular bet would take a toll on Anatole just as much as the dandies they were up against and simply…did not care. Perhaps even wanted It to. Wanted to be the only one to come out on top. 

Petty. Petty and foolish. This is not what he wants. But sometimes, when his most base instincts take over, this is how he is. And it is a mercy that Anatole – genuine, harmless Anatole – understands nothing of it. 

Dolokhov goes back to sit next to Anatole on the bed. He runs a hand through Anatole’s hair, and watches as the pained lines around the boy’s mouth smooth out as he leans into the warmth of Dolokhov’s hand. His heart skips a beat and he curses himself again, silently, for always being so incapable of letting go of the bitterness that had instilled itself in him since adolescence. 

“How’s your headache?”

“Bad. Whatever we did yesterday must have been wild. It’s too bad I remember so little of it.”

Dolokhov smiles fondly at him. “Do you think you can eat something?”

“Unlikely.”

“Maybe go back to sleep then for now.”

Anatole opens his eyes halfway and looks up at Dolokhov through his lashes. “Stay with me?”

It’s the least he can do, really. “Of course.”


End file.
